Two Gallants
by mikelesq
Summary: Spike runs into an old friend while on an assignment for Wolfram & Hart. WIP. Set between Why We Fight and Smile Time. Spoilers through Season 5 of AtS.
1. Default Chapter

**Two Gallants**

By Mikelesq

Concept: Spike runs into an old friend while on an assignment for Wolfram & Hart.

Spoilers: Set during immediately after _Why We Fight _and during _Smile Time _episodes of AtS. Spoilers up through those episodes.

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Please, e-mail Mikelesqaol.com

Legal disclaimers: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" characters and situations are owned by Joss Whedon and the producers of the show. The story is entirely fiction. Distribute if you like. The title is stol...er, "borrowed" from James Joyce's short story of the same name in _Dubliners_.

* * *

_Prologue_

"Um, Boss?"

"What is it, Harmony?" Angel replied, turning away from the window and walking toward his desk.

"Are you two in a meeting?" Harmony asked, pointing at Spike. "Because the contractors are here to fix the glass."

"I'll move into the conference room," Angel said, gathering a stack of files and walking past Spike and Harmony toward the door.

"Right," Spike said, following Angel through the doors. "The conference room it is, then."

"Spike," Angel sighed. "I said _I'll_ move. As in me. Alone."

"Oh, got the whole day penciled in for brooding over Lawson?" Spike asked.

"No," Angel intoned, maneuvering through the crowd of scurrying staffers that milled about the lobby. "I have the whole day penciled in for doing work. Which means I don't have time to deal with your...what are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm bored," Spike said.

"So you decided to come here and annoy me?"

"Well, that's an appealing Plan B," Spike replied. "But Plan A is finding something to keep me occupied."

"I thought Fred gave you one of those game...things."

"Over it," Spike said. "I can do the Pie Factory in my sleep. I need something with a little more meat on it. With Fake Doyle getting all wooshed away, I figured you'd have something that could use doing."

"The third floor's always looking for file clerks," Angel grumbled, walking to Harmony's desk and dropping a manila file on the counter.

"Oh, c'mon!" Spike growled, as Harmony walked past him, grabbed the file off the counter, and walked around to her seat. "You can do better than that. There's got to be some beastie out there that needs the stuffing beat out of it."

"Hit the alleys," Angel said. "Troll the sewers. You know the drill. You want trouble? You don't need me to tell you where to find it."

"Yeah, right," Spike groaned. "Walk, stake, walk, punch, walk, kick, walk home, watch TV. Pffth!"

"It did rain last night," Harmony chimed in. "The sewers are bound to be a little icky."

"Look, Spike," Angel moaned. "If I put you on something, will it get you out of here?"

"Absolutely," Spike said. "Give me something to go after, I won't come back until it's done for. Unless, of course, it turns out the baddie's actually here, which, let's face it, lately that's better than even odds."

"Fine," Angel huffed, leafing through the files in his hands. "Let's see...here!"

Angel pulled out one of the files and handed it to Spike.

"His name's Greenway," Angel said, as Spike opened the file. "Petty racketeer. He skipped out of this dimension, killed five nuns on his way, and we got stuck covering the bail bond. Fred and Wes said it'll take months to find him down trying to track his portal path, and we don't have time for that if we're going after Eve. Hit the streets, see if anyone knows anything. Find Greenway, we nail the son of a bitch, and we get our money back. How's that?"

"Not bad," Spike said, flipping through the pages. "Hey, you said this bloke jumped dimensions. You hoping I'll find him, and get trapped in some parallel universe with no hope of ever returning?"

"A man can dream," Angel replied.

"Right, then," Spike said. "I'll just need a little pocket cash, and a set of wheels."

"No problem," Angel agreed. "You can get three days per diem from accounting, and security will give you a set of keys to one of our many not-Viper automobiles."

"You really have to let it go with the whole Viper thing."

"No, _you_ really have to let it go with the whole Viper thing."

"You just don't want me having it because you know I like it," Spike argued.

"You just want it because you know it's my favorite," Angel shot back.

"Look, every time I've taken it, I've brought it back, haven't I?"

"Not a selling point."

"Angelcakes!" Lorne called from the elevator as he walked toward the front desk, trailed by a short, balding man in a pinstripe grey suit that seemed to absorb as much light as Lorne's red satin jacket reflected.

"What is it, Lorne?" Angel asked.

"I know we're not on the calendar," Lorne said. "But this is Stu. He's from the WB. He just signed our firm to a big development deal for their new series, and we just need a few minutes for a confab."

"Mr. Angel," Stu said, extending his hand.

"There's no Mister," Angel replied, shaking Stu's hand and shooting a perplexed glance at Lorne. "Um, I really don't do much with the day-to-day affairs in the Entertainment Division."

"This is different, El Capitán," Lorne said. "Stu here's got a new vampire show on the fall slate."

"We're doing a remake of _Dark Shadows_," Stu said.

"_Dark Shadows_?" Spike repeated. "Brilliant!"

"Oh, sorry," Lorne said. "Stu, this is Spike."

"Spike?" Stu asked. "The Spike we were talking about?"

"Big fan of _Dawson's_, mate," Spike said. "Can't wait to see what you do with Barnabas."

"Who?" Angel asked.

"Barnabas Collins, you git," Spike said. "You know? Spooky town? Jonathan Frid? They showed the reruns late at night in the seventies. Ugh, what, were you living in a hole in the ground?"

"Yes, I was!"

"The point is," Stu interrupted. "We're kind of looking to give the show a fresh look. Lorne here thought that it might help to talk to an actual tortured-soul vampire. You known, to get story ideas."

"Um, you mean, stories about me?" Angel said. "On TV? A show about my life?"

"Well, there might be something we can use," Stu said.

"Whoa," Angel gasped. "That'd be...something. I mean, I'm sure I could think of a few things. Like, there was this guy named Holtz. He followed me to Los Angeles. Well, not so much followed. More time-traveled. He slept for centuries before he...well, let me go back. It all started in the Seventeen Hundreds when...."

"Ooh, let me stop you," Stu said, wincing. "We're really not looking for any complicated story arcs. They confuse the casual viewers. We want to stick to stand-alone episodes."

"Oh. Sorry."

"What are you telling him about Holtz for?" Spike asked. "Nobody wants to watch a show with some bearded old fart on horseback."

"Spike," Angel growled. "I'm trying to work here."

"Oh, sorry Mr. Spelling," Spike said, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you tell him a riveting tale of midnight brooding over the payroll spreadsheets? That'll get the nation glued to the telly."

"I'm trying to tell the whole story," Angel retorted. "You weren't even born yet. If you want to tell a good story...."

"Oh, please," Spike groaned. "I heard this riveting tale about a hundred times over twenty years, and you wouldn't know a good story if it bit you on the ass."

"Don't you have a job to do?"

"Yeah," Spike answered. "And right now my job is to keep you from giving this guy the impression that all vampires are nothing but boring windbags with desk jobs."

"Right," Angel snorted. "It'd be a shame if he didn't know that there were also a lot of vampires with bleached hair and too much time on their hands!"

"I wouldn't throw stones when it comes to hair, you stupid poof! I've seen E'Jyrrah demons with less slime!"

"Oh, my god!" Stu gasped. "Lorne, you were right!"

Angel and Spike stopped glaring at each other and turned toward Stu.

"The look!" Stu continued. "It's electric! The fangirls would go crazy!"

"Uh, Lorne?" Angel asked. "What is he...?"

"Um, Stu baby, maybe we should get up to my office," Lorne mumbled. "You know, mix a couple of tartinis and...."

"I can have a photographer here in ten minutes," Stu said, his eyes dancing. "It'll give the actors something to shoot for. If we can get that look in every episode, we're sitting on a goldmine!"

"What's he going on about?" Spike asked.

"It's nothing," Lorne said, taking a tentative step backward. "We'll just head upstairs and...."

"Could you two fight just a little more?" Stu asked. "Or maybe tell me about other times you fought? Where the anger came from, maybe some of the underlying...?"

"I think we've taken up enough of Angel's time," Lorne interrupted, wrapping an arm around Stu's shoulder and steering him toward the stairs.

"Oh, sorry," Stu apologized. "It's just...they make Clark and Lex look like Tom and Jerry! If I could put that look on the cover of _TV Guide_, damn!"

Angel scowled. "Clark and...?"

"Oh, conference call!" Lorne cried, leading Stu up the stairway. "We're supposed to be on a conference call in ten minutes! Gotta run!"

Angel and Spike watched Lorne ascend the stairs, as Stu followed while casting hurried glances down at the pair.

"Um, well," Angel said.

"That was...odd," Spike added.

"You don't think he thought...?"

"Thought? Thought what?"

"Uh, nothing," Angel muttered.

"Nothing at all," Spike quickly agreed.

"Er, look, if you really want the Viper...."

"Nah," Spike said, waiving a dismissive hand. "I'll just take the Audi."

"It's no big deal, if you want...."

"No, no. The Audi's fine. Nothing worth going on about."

"Okay."

"Right then," Spike said, hurrying toward the elevators.

Spike walked into the elevators, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared at the floor until the doors closed.

"So, are you doing it?" Harmony asked.

"What?!" Angel exclaimed. "No! I mean, doing what?"

"The show," Harmony replied.

"Uh, no," Angel murmured. "That is, I don't think...look, television is a waste of time."

Angel tucked the files under his arm and hurried toward the conference room.

_TBC_


	2. Part I

Part I

* * *

The standard Wolfram & Hart per diem of eighty-five dollars a day did not buy much in the LA underground, and an undercover operative could not maintain a low profile if he also had to ask for receipts. Spike was therefore in the unpleasant position of either hoping for luck, or switching to domestic beer. Neither luck nor Bud Lite had ever treated Spike well.

The regular dice game run by Zhirathu demons in the backroom of Joey's Pool Hall had been a bust. One vampire at the Pit Bull had heard of Greenway, but had no idea where he had gone. The Peppermint Stick was a good place to get a line on drugs or prostitution, but according to Sunshine, the strip club made its protection money payments directly to the LAPD.

But she had heard of a new bar that was demon-friendly. The Smoke Room, once a basement jazz club, had changed hands over the past year, and now had become a demon haunt. Many of the former patrons of Caritas, who now lacked a sanctuary, had put the word out on the street that, while the occasional brawl would be tolerated, turf wars were off limits at the Smoke Room.

Spike descended the stone steps into the bar, and noted that it was aptly named. The Smoke Room was apparently a haven from California's indoor clean air regulations as well as demon violence. A grey haze saturated the air, and wisps of smoke hovered under the pool table lamp. Demons freely moved about the bar, circling the room, sitting at the bar, and leaning against the concrete walls.

The bartender stood with his back turned, pouring a draft beer. Spike approached the bar, then called out:

"Newcastle, if you have it. Becks if you don't."

"We got Becks," the bartender called over his shoulder, as he turned to face Spike. "Newcastle's not one of the...Spike?"

"Willy?"

"Spike!" Willy repeated, quickly sliding a beer across the bar to a patron. "While I'll be a monkey's uncle! Good ta see ya. Always great to see an old regular."

"You left Sunnydale?" Spike asked.

"Good thing, too," Willy said. "I got wind of some big bad comin' in that had the locals in a tizzie, and I hightailed it. Six months later, BAM! It's all over the news that Sunnydale got swallowed up by a sink hole or fault line or something. I knew keepin' my ear to the ground would pay off someday."

"Yeah," Spike said, his eyes narrowing. "You always did have the good word."

"Anyways," Willy continued. "I was ready to take off. Got to where I couldn't keep any regulars, what with the Slayer prancing in twice a month and makin' waves. This is a better town for demon bars anyhow. You remember how I always had to stock all that goats' urine and rabbit entrails and whatnot? Not here. This is LA. Even the demons eat sushi. Hey, how about a California roll? On me, for old time's sake."

"Actually," Spike said, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket. "I was more in the mood for one of your old products."

"Blood?" Willy asked.

"Information," Spike replied.

"Now, Spike," Willy said. "I'm outta that racket. I don't know nothin', I don't wanna know nothin'."

"Heard that tune before, mate."

"I mean it," Willy argued.

"We need to do this the hard way?" Spike asked, lighting his cigarette.

"Yeah, right," Willy said, smirking. "Look, Spike, you might have the Los Angelinos fooled, but this is Willy you're talking to. We both know that I ain't got nothin' to worry about from you. I ain't been away so long that I've forgotten about your little 'disability.' So why don't you...OW!"

Willy grasped his nose in both hands, his face exploding in pain from Spike's punch.

"How'd you do that?" Willy whined.

"You left town a bit too early for your own good, mate," Spike replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Willy's direction.

"Hey, Willy," a tall, horned demon said, walking up to the bar and scowling at Spike. "This guy causing trouble?"

"It's fine," Willy said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "No trouble."

The demon cast a final glare at Spike, then turned and went back to the pool table.

"The name's Greenway," Spike told Willy. "Human. Into the protection rackets."

"I don't know anything!"

"Don't hand me that," Spike said. "You always know something."

"I didn't know about you," Willy shot back. "I didn't know you were in LA. I didn't know you could hit people. It ain't like you to keep a low profile. You've probably been makin' a name for yourself ever since you got here. Would I be pissing you off if I was still connected?"

"Right," Spike sighed, slumping into a barstool.

"Hey, no hard feelings," Willy said. "Just to prove it, how about that roll? How do you like your sushi?"

"Deep fried," Spike replied. "With salt, vinegar, and chips on the side."

"I'll see what I can whip up," Willy said, turning and walking through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Spike took a drag off his cigarette, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. He'd hoped that Willy would have something useful. As it stood, he was no closer to finding Greenway than he'd been that morning. And Willy had forgotten his beer.

"I'd avoid the sushi," a voice called from behind Spike. "The shrimp poppers are okay."

Spike turned back, and cried out:

"Clem?"

"In the flesh!" Clem replied, opening his arms and grinning.

"Damn!" Spike exclaimed, slapping Clem's shoulder. "The gang's all here."

"Yeah," Clem said. "Lots of us came to LA after the whole Sunnydale thing. When Willy opened up this place, most of the old crowd started hanging out."

"Glad you got out, mate," Spike said. "Buffy mentioned you'd hightailed it."

"I was a little worried about you," Clem said. "I mean, I heard that a lot of the Slayer's pals didn't make it."

"I didn't make it," Spike said. "I bought it."

"Oh," Clem said, squinting. He leaned in closer, then gently poked a pointed finger on Spike's chest.

"Quite solid," Spike assured him. "Well, lately, anyway. So how about you? Keeping out of trouble?"

"Trying to," Clem sighed. "There's not a lot of honest work in this town. The dock's are all union, and way too busy for demons to blend in. I've been putting in a couple of nights a week as a bouncer at Mickey Quinn's."

"A little rough and tumble for you, isn't it?"

Clem shrugged, and his eyes fell. "It's a living. I mean, I've had to do a few things that...well, I'm trying to save enough to get to Cleveland."

"Hop a boxcar," Spike said. "It can't cost that much to throw a couple cans of beans in a sack and hit the rails."

"It's not getting there that's the problem," Clem replied. "I've got a cousin there who runs a mail-order catalog out of his basement. He wants to expand. You know, get a warehouse, start up an internet site, that sort of thing. He said I could get in, but I'd have to buy his half of the business. He wants ten thousand dollars. I don't have anything like that kind of money, but if I save up, I figure I could at least...."

"We all got money problems," a demon said, walking behind Clem and slapping a blue scaled hand on his shoulder.

Clem shuddered, then turned back and said:

"Uh, Dralkor. Um, I was just on my way to...."

"To what?" Dralkor hissed through his razored fangs. "To come by and explain why Mr. Tanga doesn't have his money from Danny the Tarddeth yet?"

"I-I-I saw him," Clem stammered. "He said he'll have it in a couple of days. End of the week at the latest."

"That ain't how it works," Dralkor said. "Mr. Tanga hires you to collect, it's because 'by-the-end-of-the-week' ain't good enough. Mr. Tanga ain't got his money, and Danny don't have his arm broken. Does that seem right to you?"

Clem swallowed, and started to reply, but was interrupted by Spike, who said:

"Clem, how much did this cretin pay you?"

"A hundred," Clem admitted.

"You got it?"

"Most of it," Clem said, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a wad of bills.

Spike took the money, counted it, then reached into his own pocket and added two twenty dollar bills.

"Here," Spike said, shoving the money into Dralkor's coat pocket. "He quits. Go to your boss and tell him to find another muscle man."

"That ain't how it works either," Dralkor growled. "If I was you, I'd keep outta trouble."

"If you were me," Spike said, "you'd have better breath."

Dralkor snarled, then slashed at Spike with a taloned claw. Spike stepped out of reach, then lunged forward, wrestling Dralkor onto the pool table.

"Jesus, Spike!" Willy cried. "Take it outside!"

"Right," Spike answered, lifting Dralkor from the table and hurling him against the back wall. "Outside's that way, isn't it?"

Dralkor rose to his feet, grasping a sore shoulder with one hand, his eyes fixed on Spike. With his free hand he grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it against the edge of the bar. He moved toward Spike, but found that three demons blocked his path.

"Hold it!" the first demon ordered. "This ain't the place. Ain't that right, Willy?"

"Those are the rules," Willy agreed.

"No garbage in here," the demon continued. "Here, we drink, we shoot pool, we chase tail, but we don't put up with no garbage. Take a hike."

Dralkor glanced around the room, and saw that every demon in the bar was staring at him, ready to strike. He set his jaw, then laid the broken bottle on the bar and shouted:

"This ain't over, Clem!"

"Yes, it is," Spike interjected. "You tell your boss that he's got his money back, and that's that. Clem here works for Wolfram & Hart now, and it's an exclusive contract."

"Him?" Dralkor gasped. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm not laughing, mate," Spike replied. "If your boss is anybody who's anybody, he'll know who to ask. Now sod off."

Dralkor cast a final sneer at Clem, then stormed across the bar and up the stairs.

As the demons went back to socializing, Spike walked over to Clem and took a seat at the bar.

"Geez, that was close," Clem said.

"What the bloody hell's the matter with you?" Spike asked. "Gettin' mixed up with that sort. You know you were never cut out for the rough stuff. That's the sort you're falling in with, without me to look after you?"

"I told you, I needed the money. I'm not proud of it. There's just not a lot for me to do here. I only did it one other time, and that guy just coughed up the cash when he saw how big I was."

"You'd think you'd know better than to go looking for trouble."

"I didn't," Clem said. "I tried to get work at one of the warehouses, but it's tough when you're a demon. Word got out that there was a big demon looking for work, and out of nowhere I had all kinds of tough guys offering me money to go around and be scary. You know, stick my chest out, do the squiggly-face thing."

"Well, from now, keep your nose clean. And un-squiggly."

"Sorry," Clem sighed, taking a seat on the barstool next to Spike. "I'm just running out of options. They're probably going to fire me from Mickey Quinn's. The squiggly-faced thing doesn't scare anybody at that sort of place. I could probably get another bouncer job. It's easy when you look like I do. But once anybody gets to know me, they find out I'm not a tough guy, and that's it."

"Wait a minute," Spike said. "Did you say that you were getting offers to do collections for the gangster types?"

"Yeah, you know," Clem said. "Demon pimps, loan sharks...."

"Protection money?"

"I suppose."

"Ever hear of a bugger named Greenway?"

"Not specifically," Clem answered. "But there are a lot of guys in LA who are into that racket."

"But not so many big fellas who can do their dirty work?"

"Not a lot, no."

"Listen, Mate," Spike said. "That bar, do they pay you eight-five dollars a day?"

"Ha! Not nearly."

"Clem, my boy," Spike said. "I think we just found you a new gig."

_TBC_


	3. Part II

Part II

"Crap!" Spike exclaimed, throwing his controller at the screen and knocking the game console off the top of the television.

"Perfect," Spike groaned, rising from the couch and walking over to the television. He lifted the console, glanced at the case, and finding no damage, he returned it to the top of the set.

"I'm back," Clem announced, walking through the apartment doorway.

"Any luck?" Spike asked as he hit the START button on the controller.

"Nothing so far," Clem replied, walking to the couch and flopping down next to Spike.

"No one's heard about Greenway?" Spike asked.

"Nobody I've talked to," Clem answered. "I've hit most of my contacts who are connected. Most of them have heard of Greenway. I told them I'd worked for him, and that he owes me money for a job, but they all say he's been gone for weeks. If anybody knows what dimension he's in, they're not talking."

"Just keep at it, mate," Spike said, leaning to his left as he executed a hard onscreen spin kick. "It's only been three days, and we're on the clock. Speaking of which, the envelope on the table is yours."

Clem looked at the end table, picked up a manila envelope, and opened it. He tilted the envelope, and a stack of bills slid down into his hand.

"They only pay out three days at a time," Spike continued. "But, still, better than nothing."

"I suppose," Clem said.

"There's beer in the fridge," Spike offered.

"I'm okay," Clem replied.

"Jump in if you like," Spike said, glancing at the second controller resting on the armrest. "I'm only on level three, if you want to go two-player."

"No thanks," Clem said. "Those buttons are always too small for my fingers. Besides, I've only got an hour before I have to get to the bar. They've got a band tonight, so they're expecting a good crowd."

"Sounds like a piss-poor way to make a living.," Spike said, quickly tapping the jump button on the controller. "Hey, if we find this Greenway, I might be able to get you a regular gig."

"Um, I don't know, Spike."

"Not much for the field work, eh?" Spike said. "That's alright. Maybe something a little more tame. The third floor's always looking for file clerks."

"At Wolfram and Hart, you mean?" Clem asked.

"Yep."

"Uh, Spike, I've heard things about that place."

"They're under new management. Strictly in the do-gooder business now."

"Maybe," Clem sighed. "It's just...."

"What?"

Clem thumbed the money between his fingers, took a deep breath, then said:

"It's just this town. Los Angeles. It's...weird."

"Sunnydale wasn't exactly Mayberry," Spike snorted. "It was on a Hellmouth, and we all made out alright."

"That's what I mean," Clem said. "Back in Sunnydale, it was different. I mean, sure, you'd have the demons who'd come along and try to do all sorts of nasty stuff. You know, like the Master, Angelus, that Adam guy...."

Clem paused as he saw Spike glaring at him. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, and of course, you, Spike!" Clem quickly added.

"Bloody right," Spike grunted.

"But that's the thing," Clem continued. "Back there, you knew where you stood. The humans did their thing, demons got by as best they could, and every so often a big bad guy would come into town and try to destroy the world."

"Hardly idyllic."

"But at least you knew the score. Here, everybody's got an angle. Heck, usually it's ten angles, in every direction. Like, this guy tonight? His name's Fro'Grath. He's a Cranther demon. He can lift a garbage truck over his head. He's got this whole racket where his minions steal babies from their cribs, and he sells them to other demons to eat."

"Sounds like a right bastard."

"He is," Clem said. "But you know what he does with the money he makes? He buys laundromats."

"How does that fit in?"

"That's the thing," Clem said. "The laundromats don't fit into anything. Everything fits into them. He owns six laundromats, and by the end of the year he wants to own six more. He's not trying to conquer the world; he's trying to conquer the fold and starch market. And it's not just him. His soap supplier is a human, and he gives all of his profits to a Slynar cult. The vampire he hired for muscle wears a t-shirt that says 'What I Really Want to Do is Direct.' One guy wanted me to do some bodyguard work for a TV actress. She got her first sitcom after she sacrificed her kid sister to a thunder god. I didn't get the job, because he found out that I eat cats, and she's big into the 'anti-fur' thing. It's like the whole town is all about money and blood and fame, and there's nothing you can do that makes sense one way or another."

"That's what beer's for, mate," Spike said. "Pop one, let it go for awhile."

"Maybe later," Clem muttered. "I dunno. At least back in Sunnydale, if you weren't trying to save the world, and you weren't trying to destroy it, you could just get by. That's all I ever wanted. I guess I just thought that...."

Clem paused as a chirp sounded from his shirt pocket.

"Darn," Clem said, pulling out his beeper and checking the display. "It's Bobby. He's the manager over at the bar. He beeps me if he needs me to show up early. One of the other bouncers must have called in."

"Not a problem," Spike said. "The sun's down. I'll take the night shift. Swing by in the morning and we'll see where we stand."

"Gotcha," Clem said, turning toward the door. "Beep me if anything comes up."

Spike glanced up at the door as it slammed shut, then rose from the couch and walked over to the refrigerator. He opened the fridge door, grabbed a bottle of beer, and kicked the door shut as he returned to the couch. He sat down and twisted the cap off the bottle, gazing at the TV screen.

He took a swig of beer, then shook his head as he thought of Clem. Of all the places in the world, Clem was homesick for Sunnydale. For a century the town had drawn the worst evil imaginable, until the earth had swallowed it whole, like a bitter pill.

Spike had cursed Sunnydale as bad luck. And yet, he had always returned. Something had always brought him there, and kept him there. A cure, a spell, a ring, revenge, safety, a girl. He found the cure, and from there....

'Never did learn to quit ahead of the game,' Spike thought, picking at the beer bottle label with his thumb nail.

He had stayed until the end. He _had_ been the end. So much could have ended there. And now, with the whole world open before him, he found himself in Los Angeles. Yet again, he had found himself trapped, first by a spell, then by a destiny that was never his. The spell was lifted, the destiny a fraud, nothing stood between him and La Dolce Vita. Nothing, except a rundown apartment, a tenuous partnership with a shady law firm, the moderately amusing distraction of deflating Angel's hubris.

Spike sighed, then returned his attention to the game. The dark underbelly of the Los Angeles demon underground would wait until after Spike had achieved the Super Belly Flop power.

Or at least Spike had assumed they would wait, until the front door crashed in and three men stormed into the room.

Spike stood, slowly and deliberately.

"Hope we're not interrupting," one of the men said sarcastically.

"As a matter of fact," Spike said, sizing up the intruders, "I was in the middle of something."

"Well, now you're at the end of something," the man said, drawing a large revolver and firing a shot into Spike's chest.

Spike flew backward, the large caliber bullet slamming into his flesh. He found himself sprawled on the kitchen floor, too stunned by pain and shock to react. His mind raced as he lay on the tile, imagining the various ways he would tear his attackers apart, until he heard:

"Check him. Mr. Greenway wants a call tonight."

Spike lay still. His attackers thought him human.

"You hit him square, Charley, " another voice said, as Spike felt a pair of fingers grab his wrist. "And he's got no pulse. He's dead."

'Got that right,' Spike thought, as he fought against the pain to keep from moving, and fought against his anger to keep from ripping a hole in the man's trachea.

"Load him up," Spike heard Charley order. "His keys are on the coffee table. We'll take care of him and the car. Two birds, one stone."

"I still say we shoulda worked him over first," a third voice said. "Found out what he wants with the boss."

"It doesn't matter," the Charley replied. "Greenway's flight leaves the day after tomorrow. After that, he's in the clear. Freddy, help Mick with the body."

"How do we know he ain't a demon?" Mick asked. "Maybe we should chop his head off."

Spike forced himself to remain limp as he felt Mick's hands reach under his arms.

"Bullets work good on most demons," Charley answered. "Besides, we ain't got time to do every ritual that'll kill the ones that don't."

'Lazy wankers,' Spike thought, as he felt Freddy lift his legs.

"I got the keys," Charley said. "Follow me."

Spike felt the two men shift his weight and carry him out of the apartment. They paused briefly, then Spike heard Charley say:

"Coast's clear. Let's move."

As Mick and Freddy carried him, Spike heard the background din of the Los Angeles night. He then heard the chirp of the Audi's keyless entry button, and his body was thrown down into what Spike surmised was the trunk of the car. The pain of the bullet wound exploded in Spike's chest, but he remained motionless.

"Meet at the diner after you're done," Spike heard Charley say. "We'll take care of the wrinkly guy when he gets off work. Then we'll head back to Fresno."

"Gotcha," Mick said, slamming down the trunk lid. "I still say we should chop his head off."

"Then do it," Charley responded. "Just wait 'til you're somewhere safe. I ain't hangin' out after a gunshot any longer than I have to."

"Right," Mick said.

Spike heard footsteps fade into the distance, and then the doors of the car quickly opened and closed. The engine roared to life, and Spike felt the car begin to move.

"This sucks," Spike heard Freddy groan. Spike carefully shifted in the trunk toward the rear seat, focusing his keen hearing on the conversation from the front seat.

"Part of the job," Mick sighed.

"Not the job I signed on for," Freddy shot back. "I signed on for a piece of the action. There ain't no percentage in helping Greenway skip town."

"Well, there ain't no percentage in letting the boss get killed, either," Mick said. "Bryce don't like a welcher, and there's no way Greenway can pay what he owes us unless he can get to those Swiss accounts he set up."

"I don't know what the holdup is," Freddy groaned. "We got all the fake ID papers together a week ago."

"Freddy, would you want to spend eternity in an alternate dimension where slimy bug people eat entrails?"

"No."

"Neither would Mr. Greenway. And anybody with any sense knows it. You cross Magnus Bryce, you can bet a couple of dead nuns won't be enough to get him off your case. Hell, the guy in the trunk was probably working for him. The boss had to lay low until the heat was off."

"The boss should never have got that far into Bryce to begin with," Freddy mumbled.

"The magic worked," Mick said. "Worked good enough to make the boss plenty. More than enough to pay Bryce regular."

"Until he got pinched," Freddy replied. "Then we're all left high and dry, and smelling like tuna."

"Speaking of which," Mick said, as Spike felt the car ease to a stop. "We're here."

Spike's shifted, setting his feet for a quick pounce. As soon as the goons opened the trunk, he would be ready.

"Gotta knife?" Spike heard Mick ask from outside the car.

"This one," Freddy replied.

"That's a switchblade, you moron," Mick growled. "Do you know how long it'll take to get his head off with that?"

"Think he's a demon?" Freddy asked.

"Doubt it," Mick replied. "Bryce usually sticks to humans."

"What about the flabby demon?"

"Probably just lookin' to get some cash for a tip. Anyway, it won't matter once we take care of him."

'We'll see about that,' Spike thought, balling his hands into fists as he waited for the trunk to open.

"This guy here," Freddy said. "If he's something else, whaddaya think'll...you out?"

"Come out?"

"When we cut his head off?"

"Blood. Or ooze, if he's a demon. I heard some demons spurt out maggots."

"Um...maybe...you know...we could swing by a hardware store and get an axe? You know, one of those long-handled jobs that...?"

"Oh, screw it," Mick grumbled. "He looked human to me. Get the other side. I left it in neutral."

'Neutral?' Spike thought, only realizing that Mick referred to the gear shift as he felt the car slowly roll forward. Spike braced himself against the rear of the compartment, angling his legs to take a sharp kick at the trunk lid, when suddenly he felt his head slam against the roof of the trunk. His body tumbled in the small space as he heard a loud splash, and then a slow gurgle.

"Crap!" Spike exclaimed for the second time that night, as brackish water slowly seeped into the trunk.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to Estepheia for her input.


End file.
